The music of angels filtered into my room, seeping beneath the crack in my door. The musicians for Cells’s party had started. This rhythm like Polk’s minuet had me swaying.
My one-year-old, Charlotte, finally went to sleep, suckling her thumb. The perfect baby with big mammee apples for cheeks, round and pretty. She had Mamaí’s brown eyes. She was a little darker than Lizzy, or at least how I remembered her.
A wave of sadness roared through me. My Lizzy turned three a few days ago. Almost two years had passed since I last kissed her cheeks.
I wanted Charlotte and Lizzy to grow up together. I wanted Mamaí. I needed her to mother me and Kitty again. It was hard being a mother to my sister and my daughter.
Kitty was still nine in her head, or maybe younger. Her conversation hadn’t grown up. At times it seemed she was stuck in the stocks at the Marketplace. Maybe she was when she closed her eyes.
I had no right to tell someone how long to grieve, but I didn’t know if I was enough for my sister, that I’d done enough to help her grow and feel safe and want to live life outside our room.
My dreams hadn’t left me. I wanted my own. I wanted to free us all and have a big house and land. Then Kitty could have the leisure of staying young forever.
“Dolly, you look sad.” Kitty was on the floor playing with the polished wooden doll Cells bought her. It had moving rag arms and hinged knees. On its limbs hung the same boned corset and big-skirted petticoat that the massa of the Hermitage had given me to wear.
I swung my hips from side to side. This dome-shaped cloth swallowed my thighs whole. My new dress was big. I think I liked big. No one would miss me when I entered a room. “I’m well, sis. I’m just getting used to all these clothes. I want to look right for him.”
“You do. No fretting, Dolly. Tonight is Cells’s party,” she said. “You’ve practiced serving tea. You’ll be fine.”
Tugging at my jet skirt and off-white tunic, I watched the fabric billow. Cells procured this specifically for me, nothing handed down. Procured was one of the new words he taught me in his study. He shared many in his readings to us when he returned from church on Sunday.
An Anglican church, a building of wood and glass, not outdoors. He sought the English God like his British friends that arrived at the Hermitage tonight.
“You look very pretty, Dolly. Finish up and come back and play with me.”
“Thank you, Kitty, but I don’t know how long this will go.”
I’d earned a chance to serve at one of his parties, not just spy on them from the kitchen. Cells trusted me, to allow me around these politicking fellows.
That meant more than dressing pretty.
I smoothed my starched apron. It made a snap sound as I tied the bands. “Kitty, you’re going to be good and watch Charlotte?”
“Yes. No one will take her. Here, Dolly.” Kitty gave me a necklace. “I made it for you.”
The cowrie shells were glossy, painted red and gold and strung on a thin strip of leather. It looked like Mamaí’s rosary beads that I prayed over, mentioning her, mentioning Lizzy. “It’s lovely, sis.”
Cells’s other servers wore no jewelry, but I didn’t want to be like the rest.
Putting on the necklace, I stared at my figure in the mirror. I wasn’t skin and bones. My bosom was thick. My waist showed again, small and tight. This outfit missed the curves of my hips and thighs.
These colors, dull and dark, were dreary against my skin—it wasn’t right. The skirt had no print or stripes. This couldn’t be how to fit into Cells’s world.
Charlotte awoke and pulled herself up on the side of her crib. She blew me a gummy kiss. “Mama.”
Such a pretty voice.
Kitty leapt up. “She sounds like our mama. Like a hummingbird.”
I fanned at my eyes. Charlotte sure did. Just like Mamaí.
Not crying or dwelling in my sorrow, I forced a smile and looked down at Charlotte. “It looks like a tooth is going to come.”
Wishing I had Mamaí’s knowledge of tinctures, I wanted to make something for Charlotte. I didn’t want her in pain.
My baby lifted her arms, and I scooped her up and snuggled her close.
“Will Mr. Cells read to us tonight?” Kitty asked. “When his party’s done?”
“He . . . he will probably be too tired.”
Kitty’s face held a frown, but it was a lot for her to look forward to Cells. Maybe my frets about my sister were just my own.
Charlotte smiled and dribbled and blew air through her lips. I was sure my baby liked Cells reading to us too.
“You were up late with Mrs. Randolph pressing tablecloths. You should be a part of the fun.”
“No, Kitty. I work hard because I want to learn. Today, I serve. Someday it will be my party. I dream about us having a house like this.”
“You should be a guest at this one. Mr. Cells should let you since you make him happy.”
“He’s happy with my work. I have to earn our ransom. I need to earn a hundred and fifty pounds more than the fifty I’ve saved.”
Bending over the cradle, I put my Charlotte down. “Kitty’s going to take care of you while I work.”
“Work. Work.” Charlotte put her thumb in her mouth again.
“Yes, your mother has to work. Thank you, Kitty.” I saluted her and went to the kitchen.
Mrs. Randolph was tipping from this pot to that one. The smells. When Mamaí cooked in the owl house she used one big fired bowl and cooked such wonderful stews of salt pork and potatoes. This kitchen had dozens of bowls and pots, each offering hints of onions or rosemary or ginger, or roasted meats.
Polk was in his spot by the cakes, fanning to keep the bugs away. “That planter’s widow will be here.”
“What?” I covered my mouth and wiped platters.
Waving her spoon at him, Mrs. Randolph had a big frown. “He can’t be a hermit forever. No matter what he says. Men of his stature have two families, one in Europe and one here.”
Polk swatted at nothing, but it made the smell of honey reach me. “Well, he likes playing family with you, Miss Dolly.”
I shook my head like it would fall off. “Hush, Polk.”
The crazy man tapped my shoulder. “Maybe you can convince him otherwise. That princessy woman gets in here and the place will be like everything else they touch.”
“I’m here to work. I’m going to check the dining room. I’ll take the soup tureen.”
Grabbing up the fine white pot, I repeated that lie and walked down the hall filled with paintings of Cells’s ancestors, pale white faces that surely didn’t want the likes of dark me having thoughts about him. I stopped at the one I always did, the only portrait of a woman. Her features were unremarkable, but her happy eyes and the fine hat she sported told me she was somebody.
I wanted to be her. She looked as if she had power.
Hastening my steps, I went into the dining room.
The big, magical place made me gleeful. I had worked hard this week polishing the silver, positioning it perfectly around the blue plates. I set the soup in the middle for servers to reach and fill the bowls with ease.
The windows and double doors were open, allowing the cooler evening air inside. The bright white tablecloths lay on the three long tables, each sitting twelve. Many important people from across the colony would attend the Hermitage tonight.
Along with the planter woman who could change everything.
Was I ungrateful not wanting things to change or to hope no one could claim the most-sought-after bachelor in Demerara?
I went back to the kitchen two more times and carried the other tureens, placing them on the remaining tables.
Perfect.
Music. Music found me. It came from the adjacent drawing room.
I peeked through the open door. From this angle, I saw a man with fine sable skin plucking a bow across the fiddle.
Getting a little bolder, I stepped more into the entrance.
My eyes went to the lit candles and the large vases of pink and white lilies and cream-colored lotus flowers. The scent of flowers fought the fishy tallow smell of the burning wax.
The sweet fragrance might not be from the plants. It might be from the ladies.
I hadn’t seen this many women, well-to-do stylish women, anywhere, all wearing bonnets or headpieces. One had a pile of straw . . . fake hair, powdered and curled.
I stepped back, again hiding myself in the dining room.
That was Cells’s world in that room. His was fancy people, people with money.
My friend was seated in the last row of chairs.
A young blond woman, the planter’s widow, slipped her arm about the massa of Hermitage. She was bold, sitting close to him, but he didn’t seem to mind.
Her head bobbled with a pouf on top. The hat was made of satin with three swan feathers curled around it. Her big tresses might have powder too. There was no shine like when coconut oil dressed the hair.
I liked shiny, but those big curls might do well on my limp locks.
The widow’s face was young with red dots on her cheek, but the white stuff in her hair made her look older. Was that what he wanted? Someone more mature and settled?
She leaned a little more toward him. She laughed at something. Probably one of his jokes.
Cells. Handsome, all in white.
A white frock jacket and long cream-colored waistcoat with silver and pearl buttons fell past his hips, covering his loose breeches. Only the onyx embroidery of spirals running down the length of his jacket held contrast. Mrs. Randolph complained something awful cleaning his white. Rich folk white she called it.
Cells led his guest through one of the massive doors out to his garden.
The woman on his arm stayed close as they walked. Would her hair powder leave a stain?
Probably.
She shouldn’t be with him. She shouldn’t.
I backed up, forcing myself not to run.
This was Cells’s world, his night. I couldn’t let my jealous thoughts ruin things.